


A Study in Bees

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bees, First Kiss, Honeymoon, Kidlock, M/M, Marriage, Minor Character Death, Retirement, Sherlock Holmes and Bees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's life, in bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Experimental. Meaning - no, I don't know what I was thinking, either :)

He’s six. He stands with Mycroft at a safe distance – _and what makes this distance_ safe _anyway, why not a foot further forward or back and anyway can’t they fly?_ – and watches his father advance on the hives. There are three of them in total, light brown cedar with gabled roofs, standing like miniature apartment towers on the grass. Daddy doesn’t wear a white suit like they do on television, just leather gloves and a veil with his normal weekend trousers and and a long-sleeved shirt. _The bees know who I am,_ he says. Sherlock likes watching the way he moves, slow and calm, as he slides the slender piece of metal around the edge of the first lid.

“What’s that called?” Sherlock asks, pointing. He’d seen a TV program on bees, once, but they hadn’t covered everything.

“It’s a hive tool,” Mycroft says, and continues without prompting. “The bees tend to stick everything together with wax, including the lid, so that needs to be cut through. It’s also got a curved bit on one end you can use to pull the frames out.”

“That’s a boring name. Has it got a more interesting one?”

Sherlock had been furious when he’d realised that some adults reserved “proper” names for their own personal use. They would tell him _needle_ instead of _vaccination_ , and _blood pressure machine_ when they meant _sphyg-mo-man-o-meter_. Mycroft usually knew better, but it was always worth checking.

“I’m afraid not. Maybe they ought to have consulted you on the matter.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, unsmiling.

Bees cluster on Daddy’s clothes and veil as he prises off the covering slab. There’s a breeze blowing that ruffles Sherlock’s curls and drives the clouds across the blue-grey sky. When Daddy uses the smoker, the white mist drifts quickly around the the hive. _The smoke calms the bees, and lets the beekeeper open the hives to extract the honey_ , the television narrator explains in his head, his plummy tones even more condescending than Mycroft’s.

Sherlock isn’t entirely convinced – if anything, the bees look to be going quietly crazy around the figure of his father.

“Are you sure they won’t sting him?”

He isn’t looking at Mycroft, who is merely a protective presence behind him, but he still feels the ripple of Mycroft’s shrug.

“They might. He often gets one or two. Probably used to it by now.” It’s the first time Sherlock’s been allowed to watch this closely, but Mycroft has been down here before with Daddy, both by himself, and with Mummy. Of course he has.

“Why do you get to know _everything_ first?”

It’s a purely rhetorical question by this point, and Mycroft only pats him mock-consolingly on the head, which Sherlock hates even more.

“It’s nothing special. Bees are dull, anyway.”

“They are _not_ ,” Sherlock declares, more for the sake of contradiction than anything else, but he makes a mental note that it’s something Mycroft doesn’t care for. He concentrates on Daddy, who has already put the honey-laden frame into a wooden box by his feet, and inserts a new, clean one into the hive. Then he lifts out a second wax-coated frame, once more sweeping the bees off gently with a soft, short-handled brush.

“And what’s…”

“A bee brush,” Mycroft responds automatically. Sherlock frowns, and tilts his head back to catch Mycroft’s smirk. “Yes. I’m so sorry,” Mycroft says, without even an attempt at sincerity.

Sherlock vows that when he grows up, he’ll not only keep bees, but have much better names for his equipment, too. Perhaps something like _deapilator._ Or _apisweep_. When the second frame is cleared, Daddy treats it much like the first, adding it to the wooden box on the ground before replacing it with a new one. Then he puts the lid back on the beehive, and moves onto the next one, lifting one gloved hand towards Mycroft and Sherlock in a wave. Sherlock waves back. Mycroft doesn’t bother.

Sherlock continues watching closely, but it’s mostly the same after that. His father collects six frames’ worth of honey in his wooden box, and then comes trudging over. Most of the bees have resettled about the hives, but a few trail his father up the path, probably wondering if there’s any way they can reclaim their stolen property. They don’t worry Sherlock too much – he’s seen bees out and about for most of his life, and he’s never been stung – but there do seem to be an awful lot more of them than he’s used to.

“But how do you get the honey out?’ he asks, trotting over to his father. The TV program had gone straight from showing a frame filled with honeycomb to a row of jars filled with glistening honey, which hadn’t been very informative at all.

“The extractor’s in the garage, if you want to come and watch,” Daddy answers, and Sherlock nods. This sounds far more promising. As they walk back towards the house, Daddy and Mycroft pull a little ahead, talking, neither of them paying Sherlock any attention. He’s about to protest when he feels something brush the top of his head, the weight of a stray leaf. He reaches up to brush it off, but a warning instinct stays his hand, even as his scalp suddenly registers the vibrations of a low-pitched buzzing. He shakes his head, but the buzzing intensifies, sounding horribly loud.

“Mycroft!” he calls, knowing that Daddy has both hands full with the box. Mycroft glances back and slows his pace as Sherlock moves to catch up, trying to stay slow and calm. “I think one of them’s stuck in my hair. It’s buzzing,” he says quietly.

Mycroft’s eyes widen, and he stops as Daddy continues walking blithely up the path. “All right. Hold still.”

Sherlock takes shallow breaths as Mycroft’s fingers work gently at his hair. He can feel the bee thrashing about, but then a moment later it’s buzzing away again, and Sherlock heaves a sigh of relief that he’s managed to avoid being stung. Granted, part of him is curious to know what it would have felt like, but then there would probably have been a fuss, and he doesn’t want to miss seeing Daddy extract the honey from the frames.

“Thank you,” he says, and Mycroft nods.

They run to catch up to Daddy, who eyes them both curiously. “What was that about?”

“Sherlock had a bee caught in his hair. It’s all right, it’s gone now.”

“I _told_ Mummy I had too much hair. Now she’ll _have_ to have it cut short,” Sherlock declares. He’s never understood her enthusiasm for his curls. They just make his head hot, and it’s not like they’re useful for anything.

“You mean, just like Mycroft’s?” Daddy’s eyes are twinkling.

Sherlock considers the prospect, then makes a face at Mycroft’s amusement. Daddy always acts like he’s the stupid one in a house full of geniuses, but Sherlock suspects it’s only because he enjoys playing the role. Daddy might not be bossy-smart like the rest of them, but he’s _sneaky_.

“Not like Mycroft’s. Just a little bit shorter. But it’s still her fault.”

“And I’m sure you’ll be making that clear to her when you get back inside,” Daddy says solemnly. “But you might be interested to know that according to bee lore, a bee landing on your head means that you’ll rise to greatness.”

“He’ll have to stretch awfully far,” Mycroft remarks. “Besides, it was in his hair, not on his head. Maybe he’ll just rise to above-averageness.”

Sherlock isn’t convinced, either. “You mean it’s a super-sti-tion,” he says.

“Well, yes. But it’s still a promising start, don’t you think?”

Mycroft deserts them as soon as they reach the garage, his supervisory duties done. Mummy has promised scones for afternoon tea, but Sherlock can only hope that there’ll be some left by the time he and Daddy get back to the house. After a rummage around, Daddy manages to locate the extractor, which looks like a large metal bucket with a handle sticking out of the top. He sets it on the wooden bench, next to the box with the frames inside. A few trapped bees make a frantic dash for freedom when he opens the lid. His hat, veil and gloves go onto a shelf.

Sherlock spends an enjoyable half hour watching as Daddy scrapes the surface wax into a plastic tray, then extracts the honey, two frames at a time. Inside the extractor, the frames spin around with a whirring sound as Daddy turns the handle. He starts explaining about centrifugal force, and how it makes the honey come out, but Sherlock already understands that from Mycroft. It’s why water stays in a bucket when you swing it around hard enough. Daddy sets the extractor on the floor for a bit so that Sherlock can have a turn at the handle, but his arms get tired very quickly.

When Daddy opens the spout on the extractor, raw honey oozes out into a clean glass container. It doesn’t look at all what Sherlock’s used to – it has bits floating in it, which Daddy says are mostly bee parts and pollen. Although when Sherlock sticks his finger out to catch a drop to taste, the rich complex sweetness tastes like it should. Daddy claims that any batch of unprocessed honey will taste slightly different depending on the flowers the bees have visited, and Sherlock files the thought away for future consideration.

The honey will be left to settle for a few days before it’s filtered, but Daddy spoons a little of a clear patch into a bowl, and gives it to Sherlock to hold. They’ll take it up to the house for tea.

“Why do you like bees?” Sherlock asks, as Daddy begins cleaning up. “Aren’t they boring? Not like having a dog you can play with.”

None of his family seem to care too much for animals, although Sherlock has been promised that they’ll finally get a dog “before Christmas”, and he sees it as his personal duty to make sure no one forgets about it.

“No, that’s true. You can’t take them for walks, or teach them how to fetch. But they’re still smart, in their own way. Peaceful, too,” Daddy adds, with that rogue twinkle in his eye. “They’re also important. Without bees, a lot of plants wouldn’t be pollinated, and we wouldn’t get crops from them. And if you look after them properly, they’ll be with you forever.”

Sherlock frowns at his father’s obvious error. “Bees don’t live forever. They’re just insects.”

“You’re thinking of one bee. I’m talking about a hive. Even when half of them swarm off in a year, the ones that stay, remember. Don’t ask me how, because I don’t know. I’m not sure if anyone does.”

“I’ll find out for you. When I’m older.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Daddy smiles, and kisses him on top of the head, which Sherlock graciously accepts. There’s still cleaning up to do, so Sherlock heads back first, alone.

There are still plenty of scones left when Sherlock reaches the kitchen, but Mycroft has already sampled… three, most likely, judging by the gap in the arrangement. He puts the bowl of honey on the table and reaches for one, not troubling to wash his hands first.

“Sherlock!” Mummy tuts, without even turning around. She’s making an early start on dinner, and a thoroughly-dissected chicken is lying on the countertop. Despite her disdain for most household chores, Mummy is an excellent cook – it’s mostly applied chemistry, after all. Sherlock ignores her, and crams a bite of scone into his mouth, crumbs flying.

“A bee got stuck in my _hair_ ,” he says, after swallowing. “I could have been stung.”

“But you weren’t,” she says, sounding not in the least impressed. Mycroft has gone ahead of him with the news, as always. “So no harm done, and no need for a haircut, either. Now pass the bowl over, please.”

She’s mixing up something a a pan with mustard that makes Sherlock wrinkle his nose, but he obeys.

“Daddy says it means I’ll ‘rise to greatness’,” he says slowly, then rushes on. “Does that mean one day I’ll be as smart as Mycroft?”

He half-expects Mummy to make scoffing noises, or to go on a rant about Daddy filling his head with silly ideas again. Instead she sets down the bowl, washes her hands, and lifts him onto one of the high kitchen chairs, where she can look him in the eye.

“You’ll be exactly as smart as yourself, Sherlock,” she says. “Which is more than enough for anyone.”

Sherlock sighs. That’s not a proper answer, but he supposes it will just have to do. He endures another parental kiss, then takes another scone and wriggles off the chair. It’s not even five o’clock yet. Time to go see how much he can annoy Mycroft before dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

In Sherlock’s eleventh year, he suffers three great losses.

The first is his home. It starts with Mummy making noises about “getting back to work”, and ends with the news that they’re moving house, in order to be within commuting distance of a medium-sized university. Sherlock packs his toys and books into cardboard boxes, but the new house will be smaller, and there are many things he’s too old for now. He sets aside the thin childhood readers with their sturdy covers, and the ancient blue bear grown grubby and ragged from being chewed on and dragged around. He throws away old school books and drawings, and half-built structures of glue and plywood. Redbeard wanders in and out, sniffing at things and generally getting in the way. Sherlock scratches him behind the ears, nudges him aside, and keeps sorting.

To the growing discard pile he adds dozens of small plastic and wooden toys, and boxed games with mislaid pieces. _Such a careless child_ , Mummy still tsks sometimes. _Would forget your own head if it wasn’t screwed on._ It’s not Sherlock’s fault he’s losing his bedroom, though, the only one he’s known all his life. Where the morning sun streams in through the wood-framed windows onto the hearthrug, and he has a reading chair and desk set up just the way he likes it. Sometimes at night he’s allowed to have a fire in the fireplace, and Mycroft might come in to play board games, although it’s understood that he’s only there on sufferance. Sherlock’s room is _his_. His new room will still be upstairs and have a view of the garden, he’s been assured, but it won’t be the _same_. Still, that’s no reason to be upset. Maybe at his new school he’ll even make some friends, the way Mummy keeps going on about. At the very least there’ll be new people, and surely some of them will be more interesting than the ones he knows now.

Bored with sorting, Sherlock heads out of the room, intent on finding another cardboard box and a stack of newspaper for wrapping up the more delicate parts of his chemistry set. Redbeard trails him downstairs, where the living room looks like the aftermath of an explosion. Daddy appears to be packing some of the debris into a box. Redbeard immediately runs over and puts his paws on its edge, nosing at the contents.

“Oi, off with you. Or I’ll lock you outside.” Daddy gently pushes the dog away before smiling at Sherlock. “How’s the packing?”

“I don’t want to go to Sussex,” Sherlock says, and then adds, “Redbeard doesn’t either.”

“Well, needs must when Mummy drives,” Daddy says, a phrase Sherlock knows would earn him a swat from Mummy if she were to hear it. He’s trying to make Sherlock smile, but he’s not in the mood.

“But it’s so far away and what if I don’t like it there?”

“It doesn’t matter where you live, Sherlock. It’ll be a different house, but everything’s coming along – all your things and all of us. The important things.”

As Redbeard snuffles against his hand, it suddenly occurs to Sherlock that Daddy has pets, too. “What about the bees?”

“Yes, they’re coming too.”

“How?” Redbeard will go in the car with them, but he can’t imagine Mummy agreeing to put the hives in the boot. The furniture will be loaded into a moving van, but the bees probably wouldn’t like travelling that way. The movers probably wouldn’t like it either.

“I’ve hired a special van for them. On Wednesday night, when they’re all at home, I’ll cover the hives with mesh so they can’t get out, and fix the parts together with clips. The van will come first thing on Thursday, we’ll strap the hives down in the back, and off they go. They’ll get there before we do, and with a lot less fuss.”

Sherlock considers. “It’s not fair. _They_ get to bring their entire house.” He thinks that maybe moving wouldn’t be so bad if it were as easy as that; if he could simply fall asleep and wake up the next morning in his own bed to find all his familiar things magically transported to their new location.

“That’s true. They don’t have to pack, either. But we do.” Daddy stands, his joints cracking softly, and begins taping up the box.

Sherlock takes the hint, and returns upstairs with his empty box and his newspapers. He drops everything in the middle of the floor, and stands by the window for a while looking at the line of gently waving trees, the rosebushes planted by the path freshly flowering in red and white. He knows it’ll be better for Mummy if they move, and Mycroft says it’s all part of growing up, and Daddy’s right that everything important is coming with them. But, he thinks, he doesn’t have to like it.

***

Three months after they move, Mycroft leaves for university.

All the excitement, such as it is, is already over. Mycroft’s outstanding A-levels have been duly achieved, formal interviews and tests attended and passed. His acceptance forms, marked everywhere with the university crest, have been thoroughly sifted through and discussed. At Mummy’s insistence, Mycroft’s even tried on his “academic dress” – a ridiculous looking outfit of black suit, white tie, cap and gown – and Daddy’s taken his picture in the garden, in front of the Japanese maple. Mycroft’s packed his bags, eaten his breakfast, and even tidied his room. Now Sherlock is just waiting for him to get around to the _leaving_ part.

“I won’t miss you at all,” he sniffs, as they venture forth into the garden. He may be a foot shorter, but keeps up easily with Mycroft’s rather lumbering stride. Redbeard trots alongside them, occasionally dashing off to investigate an interesting shrub or tree. “So I don’t see why _they_ should care.”

“Nor do I,” Mycroft says. He’s dressed for travelling in beige slacks and a blue shirt, open at the collar. “But as Daddy says, it’s tradition. Wouldn’t want to upset the bees now, would we?”

“What would they do, anyway? If they were upset?”

Mycroft shrugs. “Not produce as much honey, I suppose.” He glances down at Sherlock’s earnest face, and his eyes suddenly crinkle at the corners in a way that reminds Sherlock of Daddy. “Or perhaps… they’ll become so resentful that they’ll be driven to plot revenge! Imagine the lot of them gathering together for secret little bee meetings, late at night, planning the moment they’ll desert their hives in a single giant swarm, and descend upon their owners in a fearsome attack. The Revenge of the Honeybees.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock knows he’s being teased, but he still sometimes has difficulty in working out exactly how much of what someone tells him is truth and how much is falsehood. People are horribly unreliable that way.

“Of course, I won’t be here to see it,” Mycroft continues. “Only upon my return home at term’s end will I find my beloved family’s bodies lying out in the garden, bloated from hundreds of bee stings. And then I’ll be bitterly sorry and realise that I really _should_ have told the bees I was leaving.”

“They wouldn’t,” Sherlock declares, but his voice comes out wobbly at the end.

“Oh, Sherlock, of course not.” Mycroft stops walking and bends down to hug Sherlock, who allows it, for once. “I’m sorry. You mustn’t get so carried away with foolish ideas. The more dramatic something sounds, the less likely it is to be true.”

As they finally draw close to the hives, bees buzz to and fro past them, either on the way out to forage, or returning home with their bellies full. Sherlock eyes them all suspiciously. “But it _could_ happen. If they got angry enough. Like African killer bees.”

“But it won’t, because our bees are far too lazy to attack anything if they can possibly help it, and besides, I’m just about to inform them I’m leaving, aren’t I?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock says.

“So there you are.”

They stop beside the first hive, where the bees are clustered around the entrance, with a few more sluggishly crawling around the sides. Redbeard has already deserted them for a shady tree back down the path, preferring, as always, not to get too near. Mycroft raps his knuckles lightly against a clear patch of wood. “Well, insects, I’m off to university now.”

Sherlock giggles. Mycroft does look ridiculous, addressing the bees with his most solemn expression. A few bees swoop around Mycroft’s face, perhaps attracted to the ever-present scent of sweets on his breath, and he waves them away. He moves onto the other hives to repeat his farewell. At the last, he adds, “And be sure to look after Mummy, Daddy and Sherlock while I’m away.”

He pauses, and pretends to listen carefully. There’s a moment of stillness, in which Sherlock swears he hears the hum of the bees rise and then fall away. “Well, thank you so very much,” Mycroft concludes. He gives the bees a last sardonic nod, and turns away. They begin walking back to the house.

“Well, what did they say?” It’s complete rubbish, and Sherlock knows it, but he asks anyway.

“They assured me that they would sting anyone who threatened any of you,” Mycroft says. “Also, that I should stop eating so much honey.”

Sherlock grins and pokes Mycroft in his well-padded side, which provokes a swift retaliation, and then Sherlock’s down in the grass with Mycroft tickling him mercilessly. Sherlock yells and twists away, then throws himself into full attack mode with elbows and knees. Within minutes, he forces Mycroft into a concession. They end up lying side by side in the grass, panting, as Redbeard sniffs around them both with concern. Mycroft reaches up amiably to scratch his head.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, rising to his feet, and smoothing down his clothes. They’re rumpled, but luckily unstained by the grass. He puts out a hand to help Sherlock up as well. “I don’t want to miss the train.”

“It’s not fair. By the time I get to university you’ll be _old_. Not that you aren’t already.”

Mycroft laughs. “I’ll wait for you.”

“You can’t.” Sherlock glares at him.

“All right, then, I won’t. But I won’t seem so old then, I promise.”

Without thinking, Sherlock throws his arms around Mycroft’s waist and squeezes him tight. Mycroft pats his back, a little awkwardly. “You do realise it’s only a few weeks. I’ll be back by Christmas,” he says.

Sherlock does, but that’s not really the point. He’s always been aware of Mycroft being a good deal older, but recently the gap between them seems to have grown even larger. Before, they were both children, even if Mycroft was considerably older and smarter. But now Mycroft’s virtually an adult, and Sherlock’s _still_ a child, not even a teenager. And after a term at university, Mycroft will be more adult than ever. Maybe he won’t even want to talk to Sherlock any more, much less explain things to him. It’s unbearable.

In the end, Sherlock doesn’t go downstairs to see Mycroft drive off to the station with Mummy. But he stands at the window and watches until he can’t see the car anymore.

***

It’s the worst Christmas ever.

His parents insist on waiting until the university term finishes and Mycroft comes home, even though Redbeard doesn’t mean anything as much to him as he means to Sherlock. Mycroft’s never been a pet person, never asked for anything more lively than a goldfish, and so Redbeard has always been _Sherlock’s_ dog. He loves Redbeard for his own sake, of course, but all the more for knowing that owning a dog is one of the few things Mycroft hasn’t done first, or quicker, or better. Still, his parents think Mycroft deserves the chance to say goodbye.

It had happened so quickly; or maybe had happened so slowly that none of them had noticed, the same way Sherlock had grown from babyhood to his current size over the years while managing to look essentially the same from one day to the next. Redbeard had never been a voracious eater, but in the weeks after Mycroft’s departure Sherlock noticed him eating less and less, becoming noticeably thinner. Mummy thought perhaps he was just missing Mycroft, something Sherlock found unlikely. Over the years Redbeard had grown increasingly less active as well, but at first it seemed a natural decline from the exuberance of puppyhood, and certainly nothing to worry about. But sometime in the past month, he had become increasingly reluctant to follow Sherlock around the garden, left more of his food untouched, and finally capped it off by vomiting on the hall rug, something he had never done in his life. Mummy took him to the vet.

There had been numerous tests, and then a biopsy, and then another two weeks passed before the pronouncement came back. Sherlock knew what _cancer_ was, at least in theory, but only as it applied to humans. He had never thought to associate it with dogs, hadn’t realised that such a thing could happen in a completely different species. It was an oversight that made the verdict that much harder to bear. Daddy sat him down on his bed, with Redbeard curled up contentedly beside them, and told him that nothing could be done.

Sherlock had protested of course, because Redbeard was clearly _fine_ and he didn’t even look sick, he was just thin and a little sluggish and vets were stupid anyway. They weren’t even _real_ doctors, so what would they know?

“He might look all right now, and he might not look as though he’s in pain, but even if he isn’t, he will be very soon.” Daddy shakes his head. “It would be wrong to let him suffer.”

“But you can cut the diseased part out, or give him radiation. That’s what they do with people.”

“It’s too late for that, Sherlock. It’s already all through his liver. The vet thinks it’s likely he’s been sick for a while, but didn’t show many signs – that’s just the way it happens sometimes. He’s always been so good-tempered, never one to complain. And think about what radiation does to people. He’d only be miserable, and he wouldn’t understand why we were doing it to him.”

“Maybe if you took him to a _better_ vet…”

“Sherlock…” As gentle as Daddy’s voice is, and as many times as Sherlock might return to it in the following days, Sherlock understands then that the conversation is over. He doesn’t cry, not then, but his face feels hot and swollen.

While they wait for Mycroft to return home, Redbeard’s basket moves from the living room into Sherlock’s room, a previously forbidden luxury. Not that it’s really needed, since more often than not Redbeard now sleeps curled up at the foot of Sherlock’s bed. They go for long, slow walks, as much as Redbeard can manage, and Sherlock briefly entertains the thought of running away, even though he knows it won’t fix anything. Redbeard can’t run away from what’s after him. They all spend a great deal of time telling him what a good dog he is, which must be a little confusing for him. He’s _always_ been a good dog. They tell him anyway.

Mycroft returns home at last, and Sherlock turns to him for a last-ditch appeal, but it’s just as Sherlock feared. He’s an adult now, and all he does is tell Sherlock the same things Mummy and Daddy have been saying all over again. He cares enough to look sad, but Redbeard’s only a small part of his world, which is now filled with tutors and lecturers and a handful of people who apparently aren’t so stupid after all. Sherlock disagrees: they’re all stupid, Mycroft included.

He spends the night before the execution – for that’s how he thinks of it, an innocent victim condemned by a heartless judge and jury – lying with his arm curled around a softly snoring Redbeard, as though he could protect him from the morning. Mycroft comes in and pats them both before the light is turned off, but it doesn’t help. Sherlock’s tears soak into Redbeard’s fur.

In the end, he doesn’t go to the vet’s. Mummy thinks he shouldn’t, and Daddy thinks he ought to do whatever he thinks best, and Mycroft avoids his eyes and refuses to venture an opinion. Sherlock kneels and strokes Redbeard’s head in the living room, amidst the scent of pine needles, the colourful glitter of tinsel, and the fire burning in the fireplace. It’s two weeks to Christmas, but he doesn’t care. There’s only one thing he wants this year, and he can’t have it. He hugs Redbeard so tightly that for a moment he thinks he could squeeze the life out of him there and then, and maybe that would be better, for him to die at home, with his family, at the hands of someone who loves him. But he lets Redbeard go, and turns away. It’s Mummy who takes him out to the car. Sherlock runs out to the garden so he won’t have to hear them drive away.

His legs take him as far from the house as possible, down to the small clearing that holds the bees. It’s the one place that holds no memories of Redbeard, that doesn’t accuse him of negligence, of betrayal. He huddles in the grass at the foot of a hive, his arms wrapped around his knees, not caring if he gets stung. It couldn’t possibly make him feel any worse than he does now. But the bees seem to understand everything without being told. One lands on his cheek and sniffs around for a while, but finds it barren of sweetness. Reluctantly, it flies away.

He stays in the grass until around midday, shivering in the weak sunlight. Occasionally he hears footsteps and voices, but he keeps his head down and ignores them until they go away. But he can’t stay there forever, and so eventually he drags himself to his feet. His eyes are sore and swollen and he feels like the dried-up husk of himself. He rests his hand on the side of a hive, just as Mycroft had those months ago. Remembers what his Dad told him about the bees, the way one bee might die, but the collective swarm could carry its memories forever.

“They all leave,” he sniffles, and the bees murmur in agreement. “I suppose I’ll have to leave too, one day. But you’ll remember me, won’t you?”

When he reaches the house, he discovers Mummy is back from the vet’s, and lunch is over, and a plate of food has been left on the table. He’s not hungry. Instead, he goes to his room and flings himself onto his bed, only to be distracted by the sight of Redbeard’s basket pushed up against the wall. Slowly, he gets up to tuck it under his bed, where he can’t see it anymore. Then he lies back down. Mummy said she would bring Redbeard’s body home so they could bury him in the garden that afternoon, or perhaps tomorrow, but he doesn’t want to think about that right now. He shuts his eyes and remembers Redbeard as he was when he was only a puppy, jumping up against Sherlock’s legs, licking at his face. Last night he hardly slept, and so within minutes he’s asleep and dreaming.

In his dream, Redbeard is just as he was when Sherlock last saw him, except that his coat is glossy, his eyes are bright, and he races ahead through a giant green field as Sherlock struggles to keep up. When Sherlock calls his name, he stops and looks around before running joyfully into Sherlock’s arms. He noses at Sherlock’s face, and then barks insistently, once, twice, as though wondering where he’s been all this time. Sherlock laughs, but after a moment Redbeard dashes off again, and before Sherlock can take more than a couple of steps to follow him, Redbeard has disappeared into the long, dry grass. Sherlock calls and calls, but wakes knowing that this time, he isn’t coming back.

He tries to muster up a little enthusiasm for Christmas, but the day lasts forever, and by lunch time even Daddy’s given up pretending that they’re all having fun. On Boxing Day, Mummy says that perhaps they ought to get another dog, that it would be the best thing for everyone, but Sherlock puts up such a violent protest that she’s forced to abandon the idea. He vows never to own a dog again.


	3. Chapter 3

Growing up takes Sherlock a long time, and proves exceedingly tedious, but eventually he leaves home too, first for university, and then for London. He says his own quiet goodbyes to the bees in the back garden, briefly entertaining the thought of taking a swarm along to keep him company. However, while hobby beekeepers exist even in central London, he doubts any of them have ever needed to rent a flat. His first lodgings are a bedsit in East London, so small and squalid that its appearance would have benefited greatly from a nest of bees in the corner.

Apparently in the throes of some existential crisis, his parents then decide to move to Oklahoma. Of all the places in the world they could have chosen to settle, Sherlock doesn’t understand how that location could possibly appeal to them. He hopes for his own sanity that it has nothing to do with its musical namesake – bad enough that in his childhood he had to suffer regular renditions of “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” from Daddy, a song clearly written with the intention of ruining any such possibility. The house in Sussex stays empty for their visits home; the house, grounds and flying livestock tended by a neighbour in exchange for a steady supply of honey.

Sherlock tries and rejects job after job, and somewhere in his mid-20s, the years begin to blur together. At some point Sherlock loses track of them completely. Eventually Mycroft throws his (by now considerable) weight around in order to save Sherlock from himself, a necessary intervention that nevertheless leaves both of them simmering with resentment. Gifted with a last-ditch introduction to Scotland Yard, Sherlock tears through a series of cold cases as though they were crossword puzzles, and holds on to his mask of civility just long enough to build a decent reputation. At last, something _interesting_. The DIs are a predictably stupid bunch, but at least Lestrade will listen to him, and it gives Sherlock a chance to prove himself at last. He moves into a one-bedroom flat in Croydon, where the windows open all the way, and the roof actually keeps the rain out.

One downside of his new, sober existence is that he’s now expected to visit his parents, particularly since it’s one of the few things Mycroft will advance him money for. On one gritted-teeth trip across the pond, he’s dragged into his mother’s friend’s aunt’s friend’s court case, which turns out to be far more interesting than he’d expected. He receives a crash course in the American judicial system, as well as the slightly troubling satisfaction of sending a man to the electric chair. For his efforts he’s rewarded with a home-made chocolate walnut cake (immediately donated to his parents), a kiss on the cheek, and a landlady who’s prepared to put up with his numerous quirks. He returns home with a ring of keys in his pocket, and makes himself thoroughly at home in Baker Street before she returns to join him. It’s positively luxurious. 

There’s just one problem with this new arrangement; Mycroft disapproves. Hardly surprising, since Mycroft disapproves of virtually everything nowadays. But in this instance Sherlock’s not entirely sure whether his disapproval centres around Mrs Hudson’s background, the service Sherlock did her late husband, or the simple, petty fact that the Baker St flat represents what Mycroft must surely view as undeserved comfort. Sherlock’s private clients are few, and Scotland Yard rarely pay anything for his services. And even if they did, Mycroft still has full charge of his finances. Still, it shouldn’t mean Sherlock has to live in a _hovel_. It does mean, however, that Mycroft is entitled to demand that he suffer punishment in the form of a flatmate. Otherwise Sherlock will have to tell Mrs Hudson that he can’t afford the flat after all.

He sits at the living room table and broods over the injustice of it all as he prepares his samples for testing. Pulling on thin plastic gloves, he slits the bloom of a single deep pink flower in half, removes its innards and places it on a tray to dry. The temptation is there, as it always is, but right now he’s nowhere near bored enough to risk dabbling in untried hallucinogens. He’ll run his tests, and that will be all. As he works, his consciousness registers the arrival of Mrs Hudson, and sections off a tiny section of brain space to deal with her accordingly. His hands continue their work.

“I was just popping up to the shops, dear, do you need anything?” she says, before noticing the samples spread out over the table. “Ooh, aren’t they pretty! Are you thinking of opening a florist’s?”

“These, Mrs Hudson, are cuttings from five different varieties of _Brugmansia_ , or angel’s trumpet. It’s a delightfully deadly plant – every part of it is poisonous, and its alkaloids can cause hallucinations, paralysis, and death. Poisons case in Northumberland. I’m working it long distance.”

“Oh, I see.” She takes a single step back. “In that case, just keep them well away from the kitchen, won’t you, Sherlock? And… everywhere else.”

“They’re perfectly safe to examine, Mrs Hudson. Just don’t eat one.”

“I’ll be sure and remember that. So as I was saying, will you be needing anything?”

Sherlock lays another dissected flower on the tray, this one a creamy yellow shading into white. “Yes, perhaps you could pick me up a flatmate.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Someone not too stupid, not too annoying, and preferably mute.” He clips the last word with his teeth.

“I shouldn’t think they’d sell them at Tesco’s, dear. Besides, I thought you liked living on your own.”

“I do. But my _dearest_ _brother_ apparently now wants me to get a flatmate. Or else he’s threatened to make – oh, what was it? – ‘significant cuts to my stipend’. As though I were a child.”

“Oh, he just wants somebody to keep an eye on you, I suspect.”

“You mean he wants to find himself a spy.” He smiles up at her, almost fond. “Since you wouldn’t do it.”

“Yes, well, I do have my limits.”

“Really? First I’ve heard of them.” Some of the pictures he’d seen in her evidentiary scrapbook were really quite… startling.

“Sherlock Holmes!” She waves a flustered hand at him, feigning outrage.

“It’s one of your better qualities.”

“It would have to be the right sort of person, though,” Mrs Hudson says, getting right back on track. Sherlock sighs. One of her less amiable traits is her ongoing determination to “fix him up” with someone, as though he were a character in one of her terrible television dramas. “Someone willing to put up with explosions, bad smells, and all those… things… you keep in the fridge. I know it’s part of your job, dear, but have you ever thought that you might be a bit, well, difficult to live with?”

“Exactly what I’ve been _saying_. But Mycroft won’t listen to me, will he? Oi, shoo!”

Mrs Hudson looks affronted for a moment, then realises Sherlock hasn’t been addressing her, but the bee that’s flown in through the window, attracted by the thick floral scent. Sherlock’s finished with the cuttings for now, anyway, and he stands to quickly wrap the remains in newspaper before stowing them in a heavy duty refuse bag. He pulls the drawstring shut and tosses it behind a chair. The bee hovers around him uncertainly as he takes his precious samples to the kitchen – ignoring Mrs Hudson’s protests – and shuts them in the oven to dry.

“Right, I’m off too, I think,” he says, binning the gloves. He retrieves his coat and scarf from the settee and wraps himself up. “I’ll be at Barts if anyone needs me. Molly’s found me a lovely fresh corpse to flog.”

Mrs Hudson shakes her head, but she’s well past the point of being alarmed. “That’s all very well, but perhaps you’d best tidy away a bit before you go. You’ll be having a visitor very soon, I expect.”

“Why do you say that? I haven’t exactly issued an invitation.”

“Didn’t think you’d find many bees in the middle of London,” she continues, smoothing down her dress. “But there you are. A bee in the house always foretells a visitor, at least that’s what Myra always said.”

Sherlock has no idea who Myra is, nor does he care. “Oh, superstition. Nevertheless, I’m sure you’re right. I do have visitors occasionally. They’re called clients.”

“No, it means a _special_ visitor. So you mustn’t kill it or hurt it in any way.” She casts an anxious eye at the bee as it settles on Sherlock’s arm, clearly confused by the abrupt disappearance of its floral targets. Sherlock has no intention of doing either. He lifts his arm and puffs out a gentle breath until the bee takes the hint and buzzes off into the stairwell.

“Just as long as it’s not my parents. Or Mycroft,” Sherlock says. He takes two steps towards the door, and then stops. “Speaking of which – I suppose I’d better start asking around, hadn’t I?”

“About what?”

“The flatmate thing. It’s either that or placing an ad online. God knows what I’d end up with then.”

“It’ll work out, dear, I’m sure.”

In the back of the cab, heading towards Barts, he contemplates his open cases. Maybe he’s been too hasty in resisting the idea of a flatmate. There are times that one really _might_ come in handy – for example, he could have tested the effects of the batches of angel’s trumpet on an unsuspecting victim under more realistic conditions – carefully-controlled, of course – and saved himself a lot of time and analysis. The thought cheers him immensely and he makes a mental list of people to speak to at Barts – Molly Hooper, Charles Abernathy, Tim Moore, Mike Stamford. It can’t do any harm to ask around. Maybe he can make this work after all.


	4. Chapter 4

When John’s suitcases have been stowed safely upstairs, they sit in armchairs across from each other and drink the tea Sherlock has brewed. It’s the middle of the day, and the light comes clear and cold through the windows, skimming lightly over Sherlock’s back to rest on John. Sherlock studies him in covert glances. There’s a plate of tempting chocolate digestives on the table between them, but John hasn’t yet taken one. He’s lost the weight he’d put on with Mary, deepening the lines around his mouth, and the paleness of his hair has faded even further, as though bleached by grief. The silence is heavy and awkward between them. It never used to be awkward.

“Well, this is all very familiar. Except for the biscuits,” John notes, but makes no move towards them. Instead he sets the cup down on the side table and leans back in the chair, as though testing its shape against his own.

“It’s… good,” Sherlock says carefully. “To have you back here again.”

John’s mouth twists ruefully at the corners. “Where else would I go?”

“Oh, I don’t know – an army pension wasn’t much to live on when you first got back, but a doctor’s salary could surely get you your pick of places.”

“True. Where I would probably die of boredom in about a week.”

“I… really am very sorry about Mary.” Sherlock’s never said it before, because he hasn’t felt it. But now, with John’s belongings safely upstairs and his world set to rights again, he can afford to be generous. “Has she contacted you since?”

John shakes his head, a single curt movement. “I don’t want to talk about it, Sherlock. She wasn’t real. Nothing about her was real, none of it. Not even ‘our’ baby. Even now, I still don’t know who she was. She was just one beautiful lie covering a dozen more.”

“I had no intention of upsetting you…”

“Yeah, you never _intend_.” John’s smile is thin. “You know, Sherlock… sometimes I almost think I imagined it all. Everything that’s happened, right from the beginning, since the day I met you. It’s ridiculous, the things you’ve dragged me into. Except that you… well, you’re the most genuine person I’ve ever known. Not that you haven’t lied to me as well.” He holds up a hand to forestall Sherlock’s instinctive desire to explain, to apologise. Even if John has forgiven him, Sherlock understands that the deception over his death can never be forgotten, as though it had never happened. “I don’t mean that you’re _honest_ , necessarily. I mean that deep down, you can't be anyone but _you_. Whatever that is. I accept that, now. So I suppose I’ll be here for as long as you can stand to have me.”

Sherlock’s pleased at the prospect, but he’s also realistic. “You mean, until you decide to get married again.”

“I think I learned my lesson the first time, don’t you?”

“But it’s what people do, isn’t it? Normal… people. I thought you wanted all of that.”

“I did, once. And then after I met you, maybe I wasn’t sure any more. But then when you… died, well, everything changed. For a while, anyway. Normal started to sound good again.”

“John…”

“But after everything that’s happened, I’ve realised that I just have to accept all of… you. Me. This.” The slight wave of John’s hand seems to encompass a multitude of vague and unquantifiable things. Sherlock immediately wants to interrogate him, to pin down the where, when and what of his statement. But John isn’t a suspect, he’s what passes for a friend, and so he lets the moment pass unquestioned.

“So, yeah,” John concludes, and settles more deeply into his chair. “I don’t really think I’ll be getting married again.”

Sherlock doesn’t quite follow his reasoning, but he doesn’t want to disturb whatever fragile peace John’s made with himself. He nods as though he understands completely. “That’s… good.”

“And what about you? Planning any more fake girlfriends?” John’s voice skims the edge of bitterness without quite taking the plunge.

“Not unless absolutely necessary.”

“Well, maybe next time you could let me know.”

“I don’t think I’ll try it again, either. It’s a lot more difficult than it looks.”

“Yeah, especially if you insist on ‘saving yourself for marriage’.”

Up until now Sherlock had thought the version of his and Janine’s affair as reported by the tabloids had been universally accepted, but it’s clear John knows the truth. Sherlock stares at him for a moment, evaluating. “Ah. Janine paid you both a visit, then.”

It makes sense, in hindsight. Janine would not have seen her attacker, nor known Mary’s true identity. After recovering, the thing uppermost in Janine’s mind would have been the stinging humiliation of Sherlock’s deceit. And with whom better to discuss revenge than her good friend, Mary Watson.

John nods in confirmation. “Yeah, she came round, sat at the kitchen table for over an hour. We almost ran out of tissues. How could you do that to her?”

“Well, whenever she wanted sex, I simply offered her an orgasm by other means. She particularly enjoyed having…”

“Uh, no.” John holds up a hurried hand. “That’s not what I meant. Never mind.” As his embarrassment fades, he appears to reconsider. “Okay. What about Irene, then?”

“What about her?”

“I remember she threatened to have you over that table over there. Twice.”

“The woman had a remarkable mind. That was the sum total of my interest in her.”

“So you two never actually…”

“No.” Sherlock glances at him, brow furrowed. He’s never quite understood John’s fixation with other people’s relationships. Surely the ongoing complications of his own ought to be quite enough for anyone. “Why do you want to know?”

“When you said relationships weren’t your area, you really meant it, didn’t you?”

“Clearly.”

John’s fingers tighten slightly on the arm of his chair. “Yeah, all right, then. Quite impressive, really.” He pulls himself out of his chair and automatically begins tidying away. Sherlock recognises the grim squaring of John’s shoulders, the set of his back. It means he’s done something wrong, something John doesn’t approve of, even if he has no idea what it might be.

“You know, Sherlock…” John begins, in a light, conversational tone that fools neither of them. He heads into the kitchen carrying his cup and saucer, his back stiff and straight. “Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like right now. If you’d just… stayed dead.” Sherlock flinches as the words strike home with the shock of a sniper bullet. John goes on talking as he puts away the handful of dishes in the draining rack, his face turned away.

“If you hadn’t come back, if Magnussen had never needed leverage over you, then he would never have needed to go after me, would he? And then I would probably never have known about any of this. About Mary. About her past. She would just have been plain old Mary Watson, my lawfully wedded wife. And then the baby might’ve actually been… ” his voice grows suddenly ragged, and he stops to clear his throat, “…mine. Because without _you_ coming back she’d have had no reason to do any of… what she did. And then I might have just settled down, had an ordinary life, an ordinary family, and been happy. You know? I might have been blindly, stupidly happy. But because you had to come _back_ …” He slams a cupboard door, making the plates inside rattle. It seems to calm him, or at least drain away some of the force of his outburst. He takes a deep breath, shoulders heaving, and when he turns back to Sherlock, he looks almost composed.

“Sorry,” he says. “I promised myself I wouldn’t, and I just did. I remember three years ago I would have given anything for you to be… well, exactly where you are now.” He smiles ruefully. “Be careful what you wish for, right?”

Sherlock’s brain is processing furiously, but sense is eluding him. John is… something. Not quite angry, not quite sad. Does it matter? Sherlock’s always disregarded the analysis of feelings – messy, complicated things – in favour of motivations and reason. He doesn’t need to know how it _feels_ for a person to kill, to steal, to lie. All that matters is _what_ they want by it and _why_. He could apologise again, but John doesn’t appear angry enough. He could pretend to sympathise, but with what?

John sits back down in his chair, and plucks fitfully at the edge of a cushion. “For the first couple of weeks, I’d sit right here, across from your chair,” he says, and it’s clear he’s returned to the dark furrow of time following Sherlock’s temporary demise, “and I’d just, you know, talk. To you.” His head is slightly bowed, remembering. “But you weren’t there any more.” He looks back up at Sherlock and smiles, recognising the inanity of his own words.

“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, aiming for blanket coverage, but John waves him away.

“Then when you had to fly off again, I thought it would still be all right. That you’d be back before too long, and in the meantime I would have Mary and the baby. And you know how _that_ turned out.” This time John’s voice is matter-of-fact, devoid of self-pity. “So here we are, all over again. You with your ridiculous cases and me with my practice. And I suppose… that’ll just have to be enough, won’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, but only because John seems to be expecting a response. Of course it’s enough; just having John there is immeasurably better than the life he’d known before meeting him. Maybe Sherlock is a poor substitute for the life John was expecting to lead, but there’s nothing he can do about that, and so there’s little point in worrying.

“Right.” John thumps his hands down on the armrests conclusively, and stands. “I suppose I’d better get on with unpacking.”

“’I did the same thing while you were gone.” The words spring from Sherlock’s mouth in a rush, bypassing thought entirely. Not calculation, but instinct. When John turns back, Sherlock indicates the empty chair. “For a while. And then I moved it. It became too distracting.”

“Oh,” John says, and gives Sherlock an odd, thoughtful look. Then he nods in acknowledgement, and continues towards the stairs.

***

“It happened late yesterday afternoon,” Lestrade says, slipping a keycard into a slot. The lock clicks open, and he shepherds Sherlock and John into the room. “Witnesses say she got up from her chair over there, then started clawing at her throat, like there was someone choking her. But she was completely alone, had been for over an hour. She took a couple of steps towards the door, and then collapsed.”

They’re standing in a spacious, glass-walled office beside a conference table still strewn with papers. Early morning sun glares through the windows, and the interior vertical blinds are open to a view of the office floor, currently devoid of workers. The thick glass door is intact, but shows cracks from an obvious attempt to break it down. “People outside tried to help her, of course, but it’s a secure room – keycarded to the people working on the project, and none of them were around at the time. By the time they found someone to gain access, well…”

“And her autopsy came up bafflingly clear of medical causes, as well as drugs, poisons, and medications, or clearly you wouldn’t have called me.”

“Well, yeah.” Lestrade says, his voice taking on a slight edge. “Clearly. Anyway, the room hasn’t been used since, and it’s always been off limits to the cleaners, which is just as well, considering.”

He hands Sherlock the autopsy report – which shows nothing conclusive, as predicted. Sherlock hands it off to John, and continues examining the room.

It’s standard, boring, ten padded chairs around a dark wood veneer table, documents still stacked neatly on its surface despite the recent drama. Thick blue carpet shows only the muddled traces of a recent frenzy of activity. The chair that ought to be at the head of the table is up against the wall, clearly pushed aside during the resuscitation attempt, and there’s a scatter of pens and papers around the cleared place at the table. An open laptop with a blank screen – interesting that it’s still there, likely holds confidential information, but not important enough for anyone to seize immediate possession. No food, no drinks, not even a coffee cup. One of the fluorescent lights has a slight flicker, but that isn’t a clue. Just annoying. Despite the lab results, poison still seems likeliest. Air-conditioning always a possibility, although anything airborne would probably have affected the entire floor, if not the building. However, the vents show no signs of tampering. Typical high-rise floor to ceiling windows, sealed tight.

“Where’s her handbag? Or briefcase? It’s not here, and there’s no mention of it in the police report.”

“Yeah, noticed that,” Lestrade says, with a trace of smugness, and hands over a photographic inventory. That’s always been the thing that put Lestrade a step ahead of the other DIs. He’s at least shown some capacity for learning from Sherlock’s methods. “It was left here in the rush. Soon as the results came back, we took it into evidence.”

Sherlock scans the photographs, which are boring. Designer label commensurate with high-flyer status; phone, lipstick, powder, mirror, wallet, credit cards, keys, tissues, paracetamol, tampon, Oyster card. Receipt for a cup of coffee, and claim check for dry cleaning, possibly relevant, but unlikely. Notable absence of sentimental items – the key chain is a decorative silver knot, but no photographs or random trinkets. Single; lived alone; no pets; devoted to her career. Organised but not obsessive.

“So why all the security?” Sherlock said. “What’s the project? Looks like something architectural, judging by the blueprints, but she’s clearly a lawyer.”

“Yeah, she’s on the team overseeing the construction of a big apartment block on that disputed parkland?”

“Strickland Grove.” Sherlock drags up the mental file with some reluctance.

“That’s the one. Been a lot of controversy over it, protests, save our site, that kind of thing. She was a key player in getting all the contracts signed off with all the various parties. Without her, the development will be pushed back another month or two.”

“Enough of a motive for murder?”

Lestrade shrugs. “That’s for you to tell me, isn’t it?”

“Where was she earlier in the day?” John asks suddenly. “Outside somewhere, maybe? Site inspection?”

They both turn to stare at him. John shrugs as Lestrade leafs through his notes. “Um, yes, as a matter of fact. Some onsite wrangling about a tennis court.”

“If she was with other people, she probably excused herself after a bit, yeah? Said she had to go off for a while, but no one knows where she went?”

Lestrade’s expression is all the confirmation Sherlock needs.

“What are you thinking, John? Was there something in the autopsy report after all?” Sherlock snatches it back, but it remains as dull as ever. No traces of drugs, medication, alcohol. No bruising, no cuts. Petechial haemorrhaging and laryngeal oedema, both reasonable in light of the described choking by invisible hands.

“There,” John says, pointing to the short paragraph on medical history.

“Yes, she was allergic to bee venom, but it’s irrelevant. Unless you think someone managed to sneak swarm of bees into a locked room inside a sealed office building without anyone noticing. Then they would have had to somehow make one of them sting her, having already stolen her Epipen out of her purse so she’d have no alternative but to go into anaphylactic shock. Utterly absurd.” Sherlock frowns. “But you do raise a good point, as it happens. Where _is_ her Epipen? A woman that organised, it would always be in her purse.”

“Exactly.” Despite the circumstances, John is smiling.

***

They wrap up just after noon, and begin walking back through Regent’s Park under a cloudy sky. John is still looking smug, but Sherlock can’t really begrudge him his moment of triumph. Even if it really is a shame about the case. They’ve spent the last few hours following up a few alternative possibilities, but John’s hypothesis fits the facts better than any unlikely murder scenario Sherlock can come up with, and so he’s been forced to concede. The official verdict will be death by misadventure, which is a tragedy. For the sake of Sherlock’s intellectual stimulation, if nothing else.

“Well, I hope you’re happy, John. You succeeded in completely ruining what promised to be a relatively interesting case.”

“Sorry,” John says, looking not in the least apologetic.

“Rebound anaphylaxis,” Sherlock mutters in disgust. “Never heard of it.”

“No reason you should have, unless you’d been diagnosed,” John says cheerfully. “But it’s why you should _always_ get medical attention after a reaction, Epipen or not. Post-mortem, it’s notoriously difficult to diagnose. Sometimes there’s nothing to see but a little residual swelling around the throat, and the sting site can be easily missed, especially if you’re not looking for it. But all the indications were there, especially the missing Epipen. As you said, a person that organised would never have been without. Meaning she’d already used it, and recently too, or she’d have had time to go out and buy a new one.”

“So, smart enough to take care of herself after an unexpected bee sting at the parkland site, but not smart enough to get herself straight to A&E afterwards.” Sherlock shakes his head at the oversight.

“Typical stubborn type, always think they know what’s best for them. She obviously felt fine, and thought she was good to keep on going. Even if someone _had_ taken her to hospital she’d likely have run off early, before it was safe. Much like someone _else_ we know.”

John shoots Sherlock a meaningful look, which he ignores. All his memories of being shot are bound up in a complex mix of emotions he doesn’t want to think about too much. He’d delete the lot if he could, but there’s just too much of it. He sometimes wonders how often John still thinks about Mary. With some effort, he returns his attention to the present. “So, I suppose this time it was _you_ who solved the case. Maybe I ought to worry about you setting up shop on your own.”

John appears to give the thought serious consideration. “I’d have to get my own blogger,” he says. “Maybe Anderson would be interested.”

Sherlock scowls, but only to keep the grin on John’s face a little longer. It’s good to see it there. Maybe it can’t be everything Sherlock might have wanted, but it’s been… fine. Almost a year now since John moved back in, a year of shared meals and solving cases and familiar arguments over the state of the flat. Christmas. New Year. The hardness in John’s face slowly thawing as spring turned into summer, returning him to a semblance of its former self. Sherlock tries not to treat him any differently from before, but he doesn’t take John’s presence for granted anywhere as much as he used to.

John’s laughter fades, but its traces linger around his eyes. “You know, Sherlock, this whole moving back in thing… it’s really worked out all right, hasn’t it? Between us. I really wasn’t sure it would. But it’s been… fine.”

“Of course it has,” Sherlock says, with more certainty than he feels. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, well, you know.” John wears a half-smile, cryptic. “Like the case this morning. Sometimes you think something is all over and dealt with, and then it just comes back, worse than ever.”

“You mean because of my involvement in… what happened with Mary,” Sherlock hazards.

“No, not really. I would have suspected about the baby, sooner or later.”

Sherlock isn’t so sure, but refrains from comment. “Then what?”

“Nothing, really. Thought it might be awkward trying to live with you again, that’s all. But I said I’d do my best with the situation, and I meant it. It’s just that, well, like Janine said… sometimes I think: just once would have been nice. You know?”

Sherlock frowns at John’s tone, the forced casualness of it. “Why should my lack of a sexual relationship with Janine continue to matter so much to you?”

“Because I’m not talking about _Janine_. Obviously.” John smiles, wry and wistful, then continues. “But at least you never lied to me. The day we met you warned me that you were married to your work, and it’s been true enough. It’s all fine, Sherlock. It’s enough just to have things back the way they were. I wasn’t sure it would be, but it has. Just in case you were bothered.”

Sherlock parses the implications of John’s comment once, then again, and then stops in his tracks, causing a lunchtime jogger to make an impromptu swerve off the path into the grass. She shoots him a poisonous look as she carries on. John takes a few more steps before turning back in puzzlement, and Sherlock stares at him as though he’s never seen him before in his life. Maybe he hasn’t.

Sherlock’s always believed in the innate drama of his own existence, and after another moment he casts his gaze upwards, half-expecting the sun to break theatrically through the clouds, or for a flock of pigeons to arise from nowhere and assault him for his stupidity. He takes a deep breath, waiting. But nothing out of the ordinary happens. John only walks back to join him, and attempts to follow his distracted gaze.

“Yeah, so what are we looking at?”

“When?” Sherlock says sharply.

“Uh… now?”

“No, John. What you’ve just said makes no sense.” Sherlock speaks as quickly as he can, not wanting to give himself too much time to think. “You’ve made a point of saying time and again that you’re not gay. To Irene, to Mrs Hudson, to Mycroft, to anyone who would hold still long enough to listen. Since I’ve known you, you’ve had nothing but girlfriends, and you’ve even been married. To a woman. So my question is… _when_? When did this change?”

John adopts the familiar, wary expression that suggests an ongoing concern for Sherlock’s sanity. “Nothing’s _changed_ , Sherlock. Firstly, I’m still not gay, and, yeah, I’ve never appreciated the assumption. If I were gay, that would mean I’ve been lying about being attracted to women my entire life, and that’s rubbish. I love women. The way they look, the way they feel, the way they smell. Therefore, not gay. That doesn’t mean I’m _not_ attracted to men. Before… Mary… I still dated a few, on and off. I just... well, I always thought it best not to bring any of them back to the flat.”

“Why?” Sherlock frowns, trying to locate the source of his error. It seems inconceivable that he could have overlooked something this significant. Perhaps when John had said he’d be “out with the boys”, some occasions had called for a little more than downing a few pints in a pub somewhere before staggering home. Sherlock had made the cardinal mistake of complacency, of believing he _knew_ John, knew everything he was capable of, everything he might do, and therefore it was entirely his own fault. Of all the people in the world, he should have known better than to underestimate John Watson.

“Well, given the way you are,” John says, still treading with caution. “S’pose I thought it’d be better not to give either of you the wrong idea.”

“What, that he might think you already had a boyfriend? Or that I might think you could conceivably be attracted to me?” There’s a bitterness in Sherlock’s tone that surprises even him.

“Oh, and since when was there ever any doubt about that?” John demands, and his flare of anger is so clean, so righteous, that Sherlock has no choice but to believe. “Remember, you turned me down before I’d even considered asking. And maybe you’ve forgotten, but at the time I proposed to Mary, you were _dead_.”

“But afterwards, when I came back, when you came back, you never…”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock. I’m not interested in making a complete idiot of myself, even for you. You made your position on relationships clear from the start, and everything I’ve seen since has only proved it. You didn’t even sleep with your own fiancée, and she was _part_ of your work. Not to mention being utterly gorgeous. It wouldn’t exactly have been a hardship to, you know, pretend for a bit.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Some things are difficult to _pretend_ , John. What has ever made you think _I’m_ attracted to women?”

“Uh…” John appears to be struggling with the concept, as though Sherlock has just announced he’s a long-lost Romanov. “Because?”

“Because it’s the _usual thing_? Because _you_ are?”

John stares at him.

They’re still standing in the middle of the path, with the world indifferently carrying on its business around them, and the sky is still grey, and absolutely none of it matters. Sherlock feels the charge building in the air, the pounding of his heart, the adrenalin jolt that usually precedes a mad chase through dark-lit London streets, or a violent confrontation with a madman. But right now there’s nothing he can do but stand there letting it course uselessly through him, and marvel at the sheer breadth of his own stupidity.

John is still staring, his mouth slightly open. It should make him look ridiculous – does, in fact, make him look ridiculous – but for once, Sherlock doesn’t feel up to pointing this out. He’s just grateful there isn't a mirror.

“Oh,” John says at last. “So maybe you _did_ only appreciate Irene for her brain. But hang on. In all the time I’ve known you, I’ve never so much as seen you check out another guy.”

“Yes, John, you’re quite correct. You’ve never seen me checking out another man, in all the time you’ve known me. Because after I met you, what would have been the point?”

That takes John a moment to process, and then he shakes his head. “Okay, you’re freaking me out now. Who are you, and what did you do with the real Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s not sure whether he wants to laugh at John or strangle him. He settles for taking a deep breath and willing his voice not to shake. “So,” he begins, and truth be told he’d be slightly more comfortable dealing with a stick of gelignite and a two-minute countdown timer, “in view of the, uh, updated circumstances of the situation, do you think it would it be appropriate if I… were to kiss you?”

A dizzying array of emotions flicker across John’s face before settling into stillness. At last, he shakes his head, as though to clear it. “All right, yeah, I see what’s happened now. You’ve gone completely mad.”

Sherlock doesn’t flinch. “Was that a yes or a no?”

“No,” John says firmly, and the word twists like a stiletto in Sherlock’s gut. “It… it doesn’t work like that, Sherlock. Look, I don’t know what’s come over you, or what little experiment you had in mind, but I think that’s enough. Come on. Let’s go home.”

He takes two steps onwards, and beckons Sherlock with the tilt of his head, but Sherlock doesn’t follow. Can’t. “But I want to,” he insists.

“Yeah, and you didn’t have breakfast either today, did you? You’ll feel much better once you’ve had something to eat.”

“Why is this so difficult? Is it usually this difficult?” Sherlock says, half to himself. It really has been forever – was it Victor? No, Edward. That was over a decade ago – ridiculous, surely it can’t have been that long. He’d probably thought he’d never need to remember how to conduct a genuine intimate relationship again. It had been much so easier with Janine. At least with her he’d been able to _think_.

John’s returned to stand in front of him, his brow creased with concern. “Sherlock? Are you _sure_ you’re all right?”

Sherlock is used to making split-second decisions. Left turn or right turn? Forward or back? He could consult the advisers in his head, but this time he doesn’t need to. This time he knows. He bends to plant a soft, precise kiss on John’s mouth, ignoring the sardonic wolf-whistle from a passing irrelevancy. John is utterly still, neither accepting or rejecting of his efforts. When Sherlock pulls back, John’s tongue flicks out and nervously moistens his lips. The silence draws out between them as John pulls himself straighter, squares his shoulders. Sherlock waits.

“I’m warning you, Sherlock, if this is…” John begins, then stops, catches himself, tries again. “If this is some kind of…” He shakes his head, indicating the vast number of nefarious motives he might conceivably associate with Sherlock. “Look, I know what you’re like, and there’s a lot I’m willing to put up with, but not this, all right? This isn’t a game I’m going to play for your amusement, Sherlock. Not this.”

“Understood,” Sherlock says, without hesitation, but John doesn’t quite lose the wary look in his eyes.

“Then we’ll talk about it when we get home, all right?”

 _Home_. The word suddenly takes on new possibilities for the two of them. Sherlock nods, and walks on meekly by John’s side, still bearing the brunt of his incredulous glances. It doesn’t matter whether John believes him or not; he’ll work it out soon enough. Or at least Sherlock will be there to point to all the evidence he’s already gathering to support his claims. As they pass a clump of rose-bushes, a bee ascends in a lazy spiral, and then the sun breaks out spectacularly from behind the clouds at last. Sherlock nods in approval at the belated display. All is finally as it should be, and about bloody time, too.


	5. Chapter 5

They stand before the door of the weathered stone cottage, and Sherlock knocks. There’s no answer, but things sometimes take a while, out here in the country, so he tries again. This time faint sounds can be heard from behind the thick wooden door - the slow shuffle of feet, punctuated by the thud of a walking stick. John is hanging back a little, so Sherlock catches his hand, drags him level as the door opens.

“Yes, yes? Oh, hello Sherlock.” The man’s hair is pure white, and his deeply-lined face alive with recognition. “Your mum said you’d be down from London about now. Lovely to see you and your nice young man again.”

Sherlock narrowly refrains from rolling his eyes, since John is nearer fifty than forty, and Sherlock’s not all that far behind. But he suspects in Atherton’s eyes he’ll be an overgrown child forever.

“Hello, Mr Atherton.” John smiles, shaking his hand gently. “I remember you from the, uh, wedding.”

“That’s right, and what a grand day it was, too.” Atherton says. “When I married my Nellie it was just the same, lovely weather we had. Of course, that’s a long time past now, such a shame, she would have been thrilled to see Sherlock married off at last.” He smiles at John, then focuses on Sherlock once more. “Miranda always worried so about you and Mycroft, you know, wondering whether either of you’d ever settle down like normal folk…”

“I’m aware she did wonder. Often at great length,” Sherlock says. “Good morning, Mr Atherton, lovely to see you again, etcetera. The keys, please?”

“Yes, yes, all right, Sherlock,” Atherton says, with an air of paternal indulgence. “Haven’t slowed down a bit, have you?”

Thankfully, it’s a rhetorical question, and he’s turned back down the hall before Sherlock can summon an answer. John elbows him gently, which Sherlock takes as an invitation to kiss him. It still vaguely astonishes him that he can.

“He’s a perfectly nice old man. You could at least spare him five minutes’ conversation,” John chides, when they part.

“Why? I already spoke to him at the… thing,” Sherlock says. Reflexively, he rubs the tip of his thumb against the platinum ring on his finger, the one that matches John’s. The feel of its constriction is strange yet comforting. “Anyway, at his age, I shouldn’t have thought he’d want to waste any more time.”

“Nice. I bet you were a terror as a child.”

“Not at all. I helped him and his wife out any number of times. With odd jobs and finding things, mostly – including, once, the boy who threw a brick through his window. He really shouldn’t have worn the ridged trainers, they pick up grass seeds so readily. Obvious even to a twelve-year-old.”

“Oh, you remember Ollie, do you?” Atherton has returned with a ring of keys, which Sherlock plucks from his hand and pockets with an appreciative murmur . “Bit of a bad start, but he turned out all right in the end.”

“Why, what happened to him?” John asks.

“Became a barrister. After his chat with the police, he decided he preferred being on the other side of the law. Now, Sherlock, Mrs Mills has already been round to air the place out, stock the fridge, and so on, so it should all be quite comfortable. Just drop those keys back with me when you go, all right? And before I forget – here.” He reaches into the cloth bag curled around the handle of his walking stick and hands Sherlock a smallish jar, bound at the top with red-and-white gingham. “It’s from the first batch of the season. Suppose I could have brought it up to London with me, but I didn’t want to try packing it in with my good suit.”

“Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” Sherlock says, and hands the jar straight off to John.

John studies it with interest, clearly noting the lack of labelling. “This is… honey?” he asks Atherton, who nods. “Yours?”

“The Holmeses, really,” Atherton says. “Since the house stays empty most of the time, I mind the bees for them. You know, in the back garden? They’ve always been there, even when Sherlock was a lad. Anyway, it suits, don’t you think? Since this _is_ your honeymoon… or is that not the fashion any more?”

“Um,” John says.

“Yes, well, it’s been lovely chatting but we’d best be off, hadn’t we John? Good day, Mr Atherton.” Sherlock curves his mouth into a passable smile, then hurries off. Behind him, he hears John murmuring a lengthier and more gracious farewell before catching up to him, the jar clasped loosely in his hand.

“You have bees,” John says, looking bemused. “In your back garden. I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere. Don’t remember seeing them last time I was here.”

“No, but then we both had rather more important things to do.” Sherlock grimaces, not wanting to think of Mary at a time like this. “But I’ll show you the grounds properly this time.”

“When you said we should go down to Sussex for the weekend, you never mentioned there’d be bees.”

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock says. “I’m sure they’ll like you.”

***

Over the years the three cedar beehives have been replaced by newer, painted white ones, now slightly faded with age. Their outline has remained the same, however – each stand carrying a tower of three lifts topped by a gabled roof of galvanised steel. The bees, too, are essentially unchanged. At most, a worker bee lives only a few months, meaning generations have lived and died and been born since the last time Sherlock visited the hives. Yet Sherlock still trusts they will remember him.

He forgoes the protective clothing, as always, but is less cavalier with John, who is new and therefore vulnerable. However, Sherlock doesn’t intend to provoke them by opening the hives, so settles for equipping John with a beekeeper’s hat from the shed.

“Well, this is attractive,” John says, as Sherlock settles it onto his head and begins unrolling the veil. The hat is slightly too big, sitting low on John’s forehead, and the fine mesh comes down in a cylinder that comes to rest lightly over his brown checked shirt.

“If a bee _should_ get underneath, don’t try to kill it, all right? Just lift up the veil and let it fly out.”

“It’ll be fine, Sherlock,” John says, but he’s wearing the slightly exasperated _why-do-I-let-you-talk-me-into-these-things_ look. Sherlock understands, to some extent. It’s the first day of their honeymoon, and instead of making good use of the upstairs bedroom, he’s dragged John straight into the garden. But only because there’s one more detail Sherlock has to attend to before he feels that their marriage has been properly solemnised.

To that end, he’s carrying a small container, tempered glass with a green plastic lid, about the size of his hand. Inside it are three small slices of fruit cake, each still edged with blue and cream icing; he’d cut them carefully from the remains of the wedding cake after the guests had all gone home. John had been upstairs getting changed, but Mycroft had seen – the reception had been held at his house, after all – and smiled with perfect understanding. He’d even brought Sherlock the container.

Now Sherlock stands before the first hive, and raps gently on its side, just as he had when he’d first left home. The air is thick with bees, and some of them settle on Sherlock’s shirt and coat, which he finds a comfort rather than a threat. John appears significantly less convinced. He stands a little behind Sherlock, looking apprehensive, but refrains from asking stupid questions. It’s one of the qualities for which Sherlock most appreciates him. Sherlock lays a slice of cake on the landing board, and two bees immediately perch on it to investigate, followed quickly by a third. He looks back to see that a few more have decided to do the same with John, who stands perfectly still as they crawl over his hat and veil. There are also bees on his unprotected shirtfront, and a couple on his arm, and it’s clear John isn’t entirely thrilled at this development.

Nevertheless, Sherlock reaches out and takes his hand, keeping his movements slow and calm. “This is John,” he says firmly, to the hive.

“Um, Sherlock…”

“You’re doing fine. Come on, next one.”

Tension radiates from John, but he shuffles obediently behind Sherlock towards the next hive. Some of the bees lose interest in him, and others take their place. Sherlock taps the hive, and lays down another piece of cake, pulling John a little closer.

“Everything all right?” he asks John, when he’s finished the second introduction.

“Well, I haven’t been stung _yet_ , if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good. See, I knew they’d like you.”

John clears his throat nervously. “Yeah, well, it’d be a bit late now if they didn’t.”

At the third hive, Sherlock goes through the ritual one more time, then pockets the empty container. As they turn to leave, the relief emanating from John is almost palpable.

“I can’t believe you brought wedding cake all the way from London. To do… whatever that was,” John says, as they walk back towards the shed.

“It’s expected. They’re family too, in a way.”

“But they’re just _bees_ , Sherlock.” John hesitates, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I suppose… I s’pose I’m just a bit surprised that you’d believe in that sort of thing.”

They’re a good fifty feet from the hives now, and Sherlock stops, turning John towards him.

“What sort of thing? You mean sentiment? Or tradition?”

“Well… both.”

“I asked you to marry me, didn’t I?”

***

It happens at the breakfast table over eggs and toast, both of which Sherlock has actually prepared. Quite decently, if he does say so himself, but then John has never been a fussy eater to begin with. It’s become a Sunday ritual of sorts, at least when there’s nothing more pressing requiring Sherlock’s attention, like a decent murder. They’re both in bathrobes, half-hidden behind newspapers, and by all rights it should be spectacularly boring, but it isn’t. It’s been a year, more or less, since that first kiss in the park, and Sherlock has come to realise things have changed.

Not just the obvious, physical things, like the slow and thorough imprinting of John’s body on his own, but more insidious changes as well. Sherlock has remained, thankfully, every bit as competent at solving cases as he’s ever been. But outside of his work, he’s calmer, less apt to throw himself headlong after the nearest puzzle out of sheer desperation. He has other things, now, to keep him pleasurably distracted during the quiet times. He even (mostly) remembers to eat. In short, he is horribly, treacherously, _content_. He steals another glance at John, who is inelegantly finishing a mouthful of toast and marmalade, and realises a number of things, all at once.

He’s still remarkably prone to acting on impulse.

“So, John,” Sherlock ventures casually, setting down his newspaper. “Have you ever thought about getting married again?”

The question successfully diverts John’s attention from his breakfast. He casts a suspicious glance at his plate of half-eaten eggs, and then another at Sherlock and his folded-up newspaper.

“Why, what do you want me to do this time? “ John says, and then holds up a hand. “No, wait, let me guess. There’s been a murder at one of those honeymoon resorts, and you need me to go undercover and report back. Hmm?” It’s such an unexpected response that for a moment, Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. He only blinks. John takes his silence for agreement, and grins in triumph at having seen through Sherlock’s transparent ploy. “Yeah, okay, sounds like fun. Just make sure she enjoys being tied up and held at gunpoint, and everything should be fine.”

“Uh, no.” Sherlock glares at him. “I meant… actually married.”

“Oh,” John says, as Sherlock presses his lips together against the babble that threatens to escape him. “So what’s brought this on, then? I thought we went through all that before, when I first moved back in. And, you know, we’ve been, it’s been…” John trails off and puts one hand over Sherlock’s, squeezing it. “Good. Hasn’t it? So, no, I haven’t the slightest intention of getting married again. Why would you even think such a thing?”

Sherlock looks at John’s hand where it covers his own. “Never mind,” he says quickly, pulling away. “It was a stupid question. Of course you wouldn’t want to…”

He turns back to his paper, trying to quiet the roiling in the pit of his stomach, but he can’t seem to focus. When he looks up, John is still staring at him. It seems to be an ongoing feature of their relationship.

“Sherlock, um…” John’s tongue flicks out nervously against his lips. “Did you… you didn’t mean _us_ , did you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock says. Of course it does, but there’s no point dwelling on it, especially since John is logically correct, for once. There’s no reason to change something that already works just the way it is. “It’s fine.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t even thinking… um, in that way. Old habits and all.” John’s bemusement appears genuine, and Sherlock supposes it’s understandable. They both came of age in a different generation, and John has always clung much more strongly to society’s conventions. In hindsight, Sherlock should probably should have worked up to it a little better, perhaps done the whole restaurant and ring thing that John would undoubtedly have felt more appropriate to the occasion. The perils of acting on impulse.

Sherlock finally manages to concentrate on his paper, but John stands up, and takes it gently from his hands. Then he leans in, and kisses Sherlock with quiet, focused deliberation. “Because… if you _were_ asking, I would have said yes. Just so you know.”

“Right, good,” Sherlock says, when he can breathe again. “That’s settled, then.”

***

“Actually, I’m not sure you ever _did_ ask,” John says, but he’s smiling.

Sherlock dismisses this as a technicality. They’re far enough from the hives that John doesn’t need the veil anymore, so Sherlock brushes a last wayward bee from its surface and lifts the mesh gently from John’s shoulders, pulling it back over his head.

“It’s too late, anyway. I’ve told the bees, so we’re officially married now. ”

“I suppose we are, Mr Watson,” John teases. While there’s never been any real doubt over the continuation of their respective names, the issue has been a source of childish amusement for them both.

“Mr Holmes,” Sherlock retaliates.

Then he takes both of John’s hands, and kisses him, to the background hum of the bees.

***

They shower together in the upstairs bathroom, washing the dust of travel from their bodies. The shower stall was never designed for two, but right now Sherlock has no wish to be any further from John than he can help. In the moist, steamy heat, he pulls John close, cups his hands around John’s arse, and kisses him until he can hardly breathe. It shouldn’t make any difference, John being here with Sherlock’s ring on his finger, but it does. _Mine_ , Sherlock thinks, as John moans into his mouth – mine, _mine_. John’s cock is already hard against Sherlock’s thigh, and he presses his own into John’s stomach as the water splashes madly around them.

After a half-hearted attempt at drying off, they topple onto the bed. John has already pulled back the covers and placed all the necessaries within easy reach, including, apparently, the jar of honey they’d received from Atherton. Sherlock gives it a dubious glance over John’s shoulder, but he’s far too distracted by John’s tongue, which is gently lapping at his left nipple. The room is startlingly cold after the heat of the shower, but their bodies are still radiating warmth, which is only accentuated by the fierce burn of Sherlock’s arousal. He hooks his right leg over John’s left as John continues to nip and suckle. Every movement of John’s hips triggers a new, hard pulse in his groin, and the tease of it quickly becomes unbearable.

“John…” Sherlock rolls onto his back and pulls John down on top of him, spreading his own legs apart. With difficulty, he stops himself from thrusting up against John’s stomach. “John, please.”

John laughs, but makes no move to touch him, much to Sherlock’s frustration. However, he makes up for it somewhat by moving up Sherlock’s body to kiss him, over and over. “God, you’re shameless. We just got here.”

“So?”

“So I’d like for this to last a bit longer than five seconds.”

“Why?”

John shakes his head, and stills his movements completely, earning him an aggravated groan. To Sherlock’s alarm, John reaches over for the jar of honey, smoothly undoing the rubber band wrapped around the checked cloth.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Well, it does seem appropriate.” John dips the tip of his forefinger into the jar, and brings it to rest against Sherlock’s mouth. “Given you always did have a sweet tooth.”

Sherlock parts his lips obediently, and begins sucking at John’s finger, swallowing down sweetness. The honey quickly disappears, and John dips his finger into the jar once more, pushes it back into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock keeps his eyes deliberately open, gazing at John imploringly as he licks and sucks.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John says, sounding slightly breathless. “Here, let me…”

This time his honey-dipped finger goes to circle Sherlock’s nipples, first one and then the other, before drawing a glistening line straight down the middle of Sherlock’s chest. Slowly, John’s tongue then traces the same path around and down, while Sherlock moans and writhes beneath him. John nuzzles briefly at the tip of Sherlock’s cock, coating it with another dab of honey, then takes it into his mouth in one smooth glide.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, and then for long moments there’s nothing but the soft, wet sounds of John sucking him. John spreads Sherlock’s thighs apart, using his thumbs to stroke along Sherlock’s perineum, and Sherlock twists on the bed, speechless, rendered mute by sensation. He only opens his eyes when John pauses to reach over to the bedside table, this time for lubricant. He kneels slightly to one side, and takes Sherlock’s cock back in his mouth as his fingers gently work him open. It’s an exquisite form of torture, slow and steady and relentless.

“John!” Sherlock manages at last, a desperately barked order that really means _for god’s sake,_ _hurry up and fuck me_.

John lifts his head quizzically, and stops, but instead of moving between Sherlock’s legs, he shifts up to straddle his chest instead.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demands, almost _willing_ John to do what he wants.

“Shhh, Sherlock. I think you’d be better off putting that mouth to good use, don’t you?”

A moment later, John’s erection brushes softly against his cheek, and Sherlock parts his lips eagerly, causing John to hiss out a breath as he pushes between them.

“Oh, that’s… god, you’re amazing. Incredible,” John says, and the stream of praise continues as Sherlock licks and sucks and swallows. Sherlock is ashamed, sometimes, of how much he craves this, how good it feels to be used in this way, but John’s words have proven to be an effective distraction. _Yeah, that’s good,_ he says, his eyes half-shut, _fuck, Sherlock, oh…_ Sherlock almost ceases to care about his own arousal as he concentrates on pleasuring John as best he can. John’s self-control is immense, but Sherlock feels the tremors running through his thighs, the tiny movements of John’s hips that signal his growing desire to thrust harder, faster.

Abruptly, John pulls out, breathing hard, one hand tightly gripping the base of his cock. He meets Sherlock’s outraged eyes and smiles. “Oh, you’re dangerous, you are.”

“ _Now_ will you hurry up?”

“Whatever happened to ‘please’?”

“John!”

“Oh, all right,” John says. “Pushy, pushy.”

He’s looking far too smug, and Sherlock can’t allow that, so he reaches for John’s shoulders in a mock-serious attempt to shove him off. John resists, of course, and it escalates into something of a impromptu wrestling match, their bodies sliding against each other, slick and frantic. Sherlock is finally forced to concede when John pushes him down and begins kissing him urgently, his hand slipping between their bodies to caress Sherlock’s cock. Then he finally settles between Sherlock’s legs, pushing them apart, and guides the tip of his cock into Sherlock as Sherlock arches up to meet him.

As John pushes deeper, Sherlock moans, once again reduced to wordlessness. There’s something terrifying about these moments, when his body overpowers his brain, because his mind is what he depends on, what he lives and dies by. But John is there, and John loves him, even admires him, for everything that he is. He clutches at John with his left hand, the one wearing John’s ring, and John’s fingers entwine in his, sure and strong. After the first frantic surge, John’s movements become slower, calmer, as he settles into his rhythm, angling himself to make Sherlock gasp at every thrust. Sherlock is suspended in time, in the haze of pleasure enveloping him, until John’s voice breaks through, sounding broken, breathless.

“Sherlock… you have to… please, I can’t…” and Sherlock feels the trembling in John’s thighs as his movements slow to a standstill. Sherlock opens his eyes to see John watching him, and he wraps his hand around his cock and begins stroking himself, hard and fast. Sherlock still remembers all the nights spent in his bed, alone, before, with his hand wrapped around his cock and his head filled with useless, pointless thoughts of John. Each time, he is grateful for what he has now.

“God, Sherlock,” John breathes, and it’s enough. Sherlock’s cock pulses and he shudders and cries out as his other hand tightens desperately on John’s.

Moments later, John groans in turn, and begins thrusting in earnest, each push now driving Sherlock hard into the mattress. His mouth comes down briefly on Sherlock’s, panting, the taste of him mingling with the sticky-sweetness on his lips.

 _Yes_ , Sherlock tells him wordlessly as he comes, _yes, yes yes_.


	6. Chapter 6

“That,” Sherlock declares, “was a disaster.”

He stalks into the flat, pulling the scarf from around his neck and flinging it onto the settee. The entire situation is ridiculous, this kind of thing never used to happen to him, he doesn’t even know why he _bothers_ any more. His eye lights upon a small crystal statue of an elephant, a recent gift from a grateful Mrs Paripatra, and he wonders whether he can get away with hurling it into the fireplace. He can hear it now, the satisfying _crack_ it would make against the brickwork. His fingers twitch, and he reaches for it.

“Don’t even think it,” John says, coming up behind him, and staying his hand with his own. His fingers are still cold from the frigid air of the street. “I happen to like that elephant.” He grips Sherlock firmly by the shoulders and pushes him towards the kitchen with the ease of long practice. “You can have your sulk after you make tea.”

John underestimates him, of course. He’s quite capable of sulking _while_ he makes tea. He puts the kettle on, and scoops some leaves into a pot, thumping the canister back onto the bench. For John’s sake, and because the water takes _forever_ to boil, he puts some digestives on a plate as well. A glance back towards the living room shows John has taken off his jacket and is stoking the fire, which is now burning in cheerful defiance of Sherlock’s mood.

“Jenz is probably halfway across London by now,” Sherlock says. He fills the teapot a little too quickly, avoiding the splashes of boiling water, then jams the lid on top. He checks his watch. Four minutes. _Four_. There’s still no technology on earth that can make decent loose-leaf tea steep any faster. “If only we were ten years younger…”

“More like twenty.” John gives him a fond smile, tinged with the shared memories of chasing suspects down cobblestoned alleyways and across rooftops. Those days are long gone; neither of them are up for anything much faster than a brisk jog, nowadays, and preferably a good sit-down afterwards. John has already settled into his armchair.

“Ten,” Sherlock says stubbornly. “That was the last time we ran someone down. Thomas Yarbury, Camden Lock, September 2028.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” John says, then considers. “Oh, I remember him. He broke his ankle trying to leap off the embankment into the canal. Not exactly a triumph of speed, there.”

“It still counts.”

“If you say so. Anyway, there’s no point fussing about Jenz, he won’t get far. Now that you’ve given him the details, Gregson will round him up soon enough. ‘Anything for you, Mr Holmes. At your service.’” John bows his head in mock-worship.

“The man’s a moron.”

“Well, yeah, but isn’t it nice to have Scotland Yard at your beck and call for a change?”

“At least Lestrade had an original idea once in a while. Sometimes _too_ original.” Sherlock shudders, his mental image of Lestrade forever tainted by more recent memories. “I still don’t know what possessed him.”

“Okay, Sherlock, let’s try this again. You are _very happy_ for Mycroft, remember? I’m sure it was a shock seeing him in an actual relationship, but honestly, you’ve had years to get over it.”

“That’s not nearly long enough.” Sherlock shakes his head darkly before his thoughts flit back to his current aggravation. “Anyway, it’s all right for Mycroft – no one even knows or cares who he is, and he can sit at his desk ordering people about until he dies. Probably will do, at that.” He pauses, contemplating. “But as for me… maybe it’s time to pack it in.”

“So you keep saying. And then someone waves a fresh case in front of your nose, and you’re off again.”

Sherlock decides that the tea is ready, regardless of what his watch says. He fills the mugs, and doses them both with milk, plus sugar for himself. He takes John his mug and the biscuits, accepting a kiss for his efforts, and then heads back to fetch his own.

“Ah, lovely,” John says, with a sigh of satisfaction. Like Sherlock, he’s showing decided wear and tear around the edges; his hair has thinned at the temples, going almost entirely grey in the process, and the lines on his face are drawn deeper than ever. But after all these years, he’s still _here_ , and maybe that’s why Sherlock has never quite managed to get around to retiring. Because the cases are what drew John to him in the first place, and without them he’s not sure what might happen. Where would he be without his blogger?

Sherlock takes his seat at last, and sips at his tea. “It’s really all your fault, you know,” he remarks.

“Hmm?” John mutters through a mouthful of biscuit.

“Without your blog, without _you_ , I’d just be…” he waves a hand in the air, “some crackpot consultant who helps the police out from time to time. It’s because of you that I’m _Sherlock Holmes_ , the great detective.”

John eyes him cautiously. “You’re still annoyed about Jenz, aren’t you?”

“With good reason.” It had taken two days for Sherlock to identify Jenz as their likeliest suspect, which had all been quite enjoyable, as far as it went. Then, when they had finally tracked him down to a greasy spoon in the East End, about to tuck into toast and syrup, he had taken one look at Sherlock and bolted. It would have been pointless attempting to chase down a fit young man in his twenties, and Sherlock refused to humiliate himself by even trying.

“It used to be that I’d at least have the element of surprise. Now people take off before I can even get a word in.”

“Makes it easier to tell whether they’re guilty, though.”

“Not necessarily. Maybe he just hadn’t paid his parking fines.”

John laughs, but Sherlock fails to share his amusement. Unlike Mycroft, he’s never wanted to be part of “the establishment”, but over the past twenty years he’s apparently joined it anyway. And while his hallowed reputation comes with its own privileges, such as enthusiastic co-operation from New Scotland Yard, and even a grudging respect from the media, it’s all so _tedious_. Thank god he hadn’t agreed to that documentary. Or the OBE. He’s sure Mycroft had a hand in that particular nomination – some kind of twisted revenge for the horror Sherlock had displayed upon discovering his relationship with Lestrade.

“But what would you do?’ John asks, dragging him back to the present. “If you did retire? You keep talking about it, but I’ve never thought you were really, you know, serious. You’d get a bit bored, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock hesitates. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John says, not quite looking at him. His right hand plucks at the fabric above his knee, the one he’s been complaining about for months. Then he looks up and grins. “I could always write the rest of those stories I never quite got round to. About you. Or, well, us, I suppose.”

“But if I retired, I wouldn’t be _him_ any more, would I?” Sherlock makes a face, and sets his cup down. “Sherlock Holmes, the great detective.”

“What do you mean? You’d still be you.”

The confusion in John’s eyes is genuine, and unbearable. Sherlock pushes himself out of his chair, and goes over to the fire. It’s burning perfectly well, but he prods at it with the poker anyway.

“When we met… “ he says, staring into the flames, “that’s who I was. The cases. The adrenalin, the thrill of the chase. That’s why you stayed. That’s why you came back. Isn’t it?”

“Well, yeah, that was part of it, but…”

“And if I retired…” Sherlock turns back, and his thumb rubs uncertainly over his wedding band, “you wouldn’t have that any more. _We_ wouldn’t.”

“Yes,” John says. “We’d do… other things. Leave the criminals to the police for a change. That’s the whole idea, isn’t it? Of retirement.”

“And you’d be all right with that.”

John looks him over carefully, and then gets up to join him by the fireplace. His hand reaches out for Sherlock’s, holds it tight, as he waits for Sherlock to meets his eyes. “Actually, when we first met, I thought you were a rude, reckless egomaniac.”

“You liked that,” Sherlock says resentfully.

“Yeah.” John smiles. “I did. And the cases were – are – good fun, and we’ve had some mad times together. But it should be obvious that I stayed because of you. Not your work. I know you think that’s who you are, but it’s not everything you are. I know that better than anyone.” He tilts his head, and pulls Sherlock into a kiss, soft and sweet.

Sherlock pulls back and swallows hard. “So you wouldn’t… mind. If I gave it up.”

“You do understand the concept of marriage, don’t you? Traditionally, it’s until death, not until you get bored.”

“It’s the same thing,” Sherlock says, but he manages a smile.

“So, then… what were you thinking of doing?”

“I want to move back to Sussex,” Sherlock says impulsively. "We'd keep this place, of course. Just in case." Mrs Hudson had left her estate to three nieces and a nephew, but included a clause allowing Sherlock and John to purchase the building, which they'd done. The other flats are now laboratory space and storage, except for the downstairs kitchen, which remains as it was.

“All right, why?” John begins, and then realises. “This is about the bees, isn’t it? All that reading you’ve been doing.”

Sherlock nods. Over the past twenty years, the continuing increase in colony collapse disorder has brought the world’s honeybee population to crisis point. Worker bees are abandoning hive after hive for no apparent reason, leaving their queens behind. Apples and cherries are now luxuries, almonds cost more by weight than lobster, and most of the honey sold in shops is now “honey-flavoured sugar syrup”, like the kind Jenz had been spreading on his toast. Despite the government beekeeping initiatives, Britain’s hives are down to under a hundred thousand, and millions of dollars spent on research have failed to turn up a definitive answer. Theories continue to abound, blaming the disorder on pesticides, antibiotics, even electromagnetic radiation – but no solutions. Up until two months ago Sherlock has always had more important things to worry about, but then he lost one of the Sussex hives, and since then he’s been obsessed with research.

“It’s vanity, of course,” Sherlock says, “to think that I could perhaps contribute in some way, but…”

“Sorry, what was that?” John glances at him, eyebrows raised. ”It sounded an awful lot like humility. Coming from you. That’s amazing – I didn’t actually know you could do that.”

Sherlock glares at him. “Yes, hilarious. But the _point_ is…”

“It’s a great idea, Sherlock. Let’s do it.” John tilts his head up, the gleam in his eyes distracting Sherlock from his train of thought. Sherlock kisses him slowly, a lingering press of lips as John’s arms wrap around his waist and the fire crackles softly beside them. More than anything, he’d been worried John wouldn’t approve, but his reply had been swift and unhesitating. Always the man of action, even when it came to slowing down.

“Just like that? Your practice…”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. That young chap at the surgery, Verner, he’s been looking for a full-time in London, remember? We’ve taken him on two days a week, but he’d be more than happy to take over my patients.” Sherlock shakes his head – he actually remembers no such thing – so John elaborates. “Started a few months back. I’m sure I told you about him at the time.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s highly likely. That you told me,” Sherlock concedes, as John rolls his eyes. “Wait… did you say Verner?”

“Yeah. Very well qualified, quite good with patients. Bit on the arrogant side in private, but then his family _is_ French.” John grins. “Or so I’m told. Why? What’s the matter?”

Sherlock turns away with a scowl, and picks up his phone from the table, stabbing at a button. “V-text. Mycroft,” he commands, and then glares at the screen. “Who the hell is Doctor Verner? V-text end. Send.” He turns back to address John, the phone still in his hand. “I can’t believe he even has to meddle in my _retirement_.”

“What’s Mycroft got to do with this? Is there some problem with Verner? You haven’t even met him.”

“No, and I never will. You see, _Dr Verner_ is an old joke from childhood. An imaginary cousin, twice removed.” By now John looks completely bewildered, whether by Sherlock’s explanation or trying to parse the concepts of _Mycroft_ and _joke_ and _childhood_ in the same sentence. It’s difficult to say.

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Sherlock, but I assure you Dr Verner is a genuine, practising physician.”

“Possibly, but I’m also quite certain it’s not his real name. He’s just been planted there, conveniently looking for a full-time position. Waiting for you to decide. That it was time.” His phone buzzes with a reply. It seems Mycroft hasn’t nearly enough to do these days, either.

“I think you’re being just a _little_ bit paranoid…” John says.

Sherlock smiles grimly, pulls up the text and thrusts the phone under John’s nose. “See?”

Mycroft’s face appears onscreen, wearing a smug expression somehow completely at odds with the dignity of his white-haired, statesmanlike features: “ _Took you long enough, Sherlock_ – _it’s O’Sullivan, actually,”_ he says. _“Let me be the first to wish you a very happy retirement, and do give my regards to John._ ”

“Oh,” John says, and then sits right back down to finish his cup of tea.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock doesn’t realise, at first.

He wakes up beside John, as always, with a sliver of early-morning light slipping in between the curtains. John’s always said blackout blinds would help him sleep better, but Sherlock’s never liked the idea of being shut up in total darkness. Nights are dark enough out here in the countryside, without even the ambient glow of streetlights and passing traffic. So when the dawn shines through, he welcomes it.

As always, he begins the day by taking stock of his brain and body. Of himself. It feels like a surprisingly good day; since entering his eighties, he’s come to accept old age as a gradual process of deterioration in which his limbs, organs and neurons have all begun closing up shop, with a view to eventually pulling down the shutters for good. But today his mind is clear, and nothing seems to hurt – or at least, not yet. He turns on his side, propping himself up on one elbow, and his joints co-operate with surprising willingness.

John is still asleep, his breathing deep and regular, and the white of his hair glistens in the half-light. Sherlock dips down his head to kiss him, smiling, and it’s only then that he realises something is wrong. John is unquestionably there, the familiar warmth and scent of him, but Sherlock… isn’t. He ought to feel it, the soft _rasp-scrape_ of John’s stubble against his lips, but he doesn’t. He feels _something_ , but the sensation is somehow muted, slippery, as though it might disappear if he stopped concentrating hard enough. John’s breathing hitches, and he murmurs something in his sleep, as though asking a question. Sherlock draws back hurriedly, pulls himself to a sitting position, and re-evaluates.

He can feel the warmth of John beside him, and the slight draught of air from the open doorway. The mattress is firm beneath his body, and the cotton of his pyjamas is smooth against his skin. Or… is that only because he’s now focusing on the sensations? Expecting them. He tries kissing John’s cheek again, more slowly, and with greater deliberation. Better, this time, with the faintest trace of roughness catching at his lips. But still wrong. Sherlock doesn’t panic, even though some part of him already knows. He deliberately holds back the shock of understanding, allows himself to process it a little at a time.

After a deep breath – his lungs feel remarkably clear – he glances down at his pillow. At first he sees only wrinkled white fabric, an indent where his head had lain, but then something in his vision slowly _shifts_ , taking shape at the edges before solidifying. His pillow isn’t empty at all. Now he sees his own form there, his own features – too sharp, too thin. Familiar enough, and yet just that little bit different from the image the mirror reflects back at him each day. It’s disorienting. The old man’s eyes are shut, his mouth open, and his brow slightly creased, as though wondering what to make of it all. Sherlock doesn’t blame him – or rather, himself. _Peacefully_ , he thinks, with a twinge of disappointment. _In his sleep_.

Then he glances at John, who has settled back into slumber, and his stomach twists with the realisation of what he’s done. There would be no proper goodbye this time around, either. _John. I’m sorry._ They’d spoken about it, of course, even joked a little – who would go first, and what they’d want done with the funeral. The body. Sherlock would have opted for cremation, but as John pointed out, more than a little acidly, there was already that _nice empty plot_ Sherlock had commandeered the first time around, so to speak. It would be a pity to waste it, the shortage of burial space in London being what it was, and it could hold two as easily as one. Sherlock had shrugged and conceded, without thinking about it too deeply. Only now does he realise John is going to have to grieve him all over again.

He doesn’t want to wake John, wants to let him have these last few moments of peace, but the light through the curtains has grown insistent, and the flicker of John’s eyelids shows that he’s already beginning to rouse. In that case, Sherlock might as well do what he wants. He wraps himself around John as well as he is able, willing all his senses to allow him this one last experience. John, too, is frail with age, but still a warm, solid presence in his arms. Sherlock burrows his face desperately into the curve of John’s throat, breathing deeply.

“I love you, John,” he says. Last year had marked their forty-second anniversary – meaning, as Sherlock had pointed out, that he’d now spent more of his life married to John than not. It was difficult to remember what life had been like without him. “I’ve always… loved you.” The words are like a whisper on the breeze.

Still, John appears to hear him. A smile curves his lips, and he opens his eyes, and for a moment it’s all been a terrible mistake, a dream, and Sherlock has come to his senses at last. But John’s smile fades almost immediately, and he shakes his head, as though to clear it. “Sherlock?” he says, turning onto his side, and once more Sherlock has that sensation of slipping, of his senses becoming distant and unreliable. He can’t hold on to anything anymore, seeming to fall away from the bed, as though gravity were operating in reverse. Hovering. Below, he sees John touching his cheek, which is a pale, unearthly white against the pillow. He sees the exact moment John’s uncertainty turns into fear, the way his fingers automatically go to the pulse point at Sherlock’s throat. It can't have been very long; the muscles of his face and neck have not yet gone into rigor. Warm. He'll still be warm. Sherlock has seen enough corpses to know.

He closes his eyes and wills himself away.

***

He’s outside, now. Waiting. Drifting. Judging by the sun, an hour has passed, maybe two. It’s spring, and the garden is in early bloom. A beautiful time to die. His parents both died in autumn, two years apart, Mycroft in winter. Sherlock is the last of his line, even though there are enough assorted cousins to be getting on with. Maybe some of the younger ones will even show up to his funeral.

In their own small way, the bees have outlived all of them. There are six hives now, in a three by two formation at the bottom of the garden. At the peak of Sherlock’s colony collapse research, there had been as many as twenty, but the extras have long since been bartered or given away to friends and neighbours. He ended up publishing three papers on CCD, but the decisive honours went to a team of Japanese researchers for the first successful vaccine. Administered via sugar water once a year, it ensures the ongoing stability of the hives. It’s now a commonplace part of maintenance. The world’s bees are still under continual threat – from pollution, parasites, and ever-evolving viruses – but the new Cornish breeds have proven remarkably resilient. Over time, Sherlock has interbred them successfully with his own, and the hives are thriving.

Sherlock wonders what will happen to them now. The bees have always been Sherlock’s domain, the way the retelling of their adventures has always been John’s. John has learned to handle and maintain the bees alongside Sherlock, just as Sherlock has written two personal accounts of their cases to add to John’s, but by and large, the division remains. He doesn’t know if John will want to trouble himself with the hives now that Sherlock is gone.

As he drifts towards the bottom of the garden, the number of bees flying about startles him. The morning sky is bright and clear, but as he approaches the hives, it slowly grows dark with them. The bees appear to be swarming – not just one hive, but all of them at once. It’s unheard of. While it’s normal for bees to swarm every year or two unless kept in check, Sherlock regularly examines the hives for the tell-tale building of queen cells, of which there’s been no recent sign. It’s too early in the season. Yet thousands of bees fill the air, all seemingly in search of a place to land. Their combined buzzing soothes him as he floats into their midst, and for long seconds his mind loses its place, his thoughts fading into the white noise of the swarm.

It’s the thought of John that brings him back to the present. He looks up towards the house, wondering if John’s left the side of Sherlock’s body yet, if he’s covered Sherlock’s face, if he’s called for a doctor to provide the necessary confirmation of what he already knows. A moment later, the back door opens, and John emerges into the sunlight. He walks slowly and unevenly, favouring his right leg, but with the same determination he’s shown his entire life. His face is set and solemn, and in one hand he carries a bundle of black cloth. Sherlock recognises it as the satin spread he occasionally used to background light-coloured objects for examination. It looks as though it’s been shredded. John’s remembered, then, what Sherlock asked of him. The rush of gratitude Sherlock feels towards him is heavy in his chest.

John comes closer, then stops, clearly shaken by the sight of the massed bees. He shakes his head, but presses forward towards the hives, shoulders squared as though preparing to battle his way through. The bees are well used to John by now, of course, but the sight still makes Sherlock nervous. Acting purely on instinct, Sherlock wills the bees to stay clear of John, _commands_ them, and is only mildly surprised when they obey. As John approaches, the bees divide to let him pass, an apian parting of the waves. It’s a measure of John’s state of mind that he doesn’t even pause to wonder, just walks directly to the nearest hive, unchallenged.

Success makes Sherlock bolder, and he tries again, only this time drawing the bees towards himself, using entreaty rather than command. The queens, as always, are the key. He sees them flying towards him, far larger than their subjects, and then the rest follow. Sherlock’s lack of substance means that there is nowhere for them to land, and yet somehow they cluster around him anyway – his head, his chest, his arms and legs, defining him against the trees.

The abrupt gathering of bees diverts John from his task, and he freezes when he sees the shifting, buzzing shape they have wrought. His hand tightens even further on the black cloth.

“Oh, God,” he says, sounding shaky and hoarse. He blinks, shakes his head, looks back again. “Sherlock?”

At this distance, Sherlock can see that John’s eyes are red-rimmed and damp, grief adding immeasurably to the weight of his years. A wave of guilt washes over him. As much as he might want to respond, there’s no way for him to form speech – it’s difficult enough keeping his shape. The bees feel like a hundred thousand darting pinpoints of light he’s trying to corral with his consciousness. He manages only a gentle sweeping _push_ that makes them ripple across his surface.

“Oh, God,” John says again, with the air of someone trying to talk himself back into a semblance of sanity. Despite this, he appears remarkably calm. “Right. Yes. All right, then. You know no-one is ever going to believe this. _I_ don’t believe this.”

Sherlock loosens his hold on a handful of bees, pushing them back towards John, a reminder. As they hover around his head, John even manages a small curve of his lips.

“Yeah, I think they’ve worked it out already,” he says, and now his tone is almost conversational. “But I know, I promised.”

When Sherlock does not respond, John turns back to the hive. He takes a small box of drawing pins from his pocket, and uses one to attach a strip of black cloth to the apex of the nearest hive. His fingers have coarsened with age, but their movements are steady and sure. When the cloth is in place, he taps the wood gently with his knuckles, three times over.

“Sherlock…” he says, and swallows hard. He glances over at the pulsating cluster of bees, and then turns back. “Sherlock is dead.”

The humming of the bees swells and falls as John proceeds from hive to hive, informing each one in turn. Of course the bees already knew, but that’s never been the point. They, much like people, simply expect due courtesies to be observed.

By the time John finishes, his eyes are damp, and Sherlock is exhausted. The bees have already begun slipping away, ten or twenty at a time. He holds on tightly, though, as John puts the box of pins in his pocket and comes towards him. He moves more tentatively than before, seemingly wary of the sheer mass of bees still approximating Sherlock’s form. Finally he stops, two feet away. There are many things Sherlock might want, but he can do none of them. He only waits.

“Sherlock, if that really is… you,” John says. “And not just me going completely mad. Although it’d be a bit late for that now, wouldn’t it?” Again, the curve of a half-smile. “God, I don’t even know what to say – s’pose I never thought I’d get the chance. I love you. I don’t know what my life would have been without you. You were a mad, egotistical bastard, and completely brilliant, and I like to think that we needed each other. Always. I wish we could have just gone on forever, you know?”

Tears are streaming freely down John’s cheeks now, but he makes no attempt to wipe them away. He shakes his head, running out of words. There’s one thing Sherlock might be able to manage, if he tries, though maintaining order is becoming increasingly difficult. He releases a few thousand of the bees, persuading them to his will, until he and John are loosely held in a chaotic, buzzing enclosure. An embrace, of sorts. It’s the best he can do. John shifts his weight uncertainly as he glances around at the hovering bees, but holds his ground. Then he swipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand, and graces him with that look of fond admiration Sherlock always so dearly prized.

“Show-off,” he says, and then abruptly sobers. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after them. And make sure they’re well taken care of,” he adds. He takes a deep breath, standing as straight as he can. “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

As John half-raises a hand, doing his best to smile, Sherlock allows himself to loosen his grip at last. _Goodbye, John._ The bees disperse in all directions, flying off into the morning of a fine spring day, and Sherlock goes with them.


End file.
